Black, White, and the Beauty of Gray
by starry19
Summary: 2x05 Tag - "He'd caught her before she hit the floor, the heat from her fever evident even through her clothes. Was there a reason she hadn't gotten antibiotics? Was this entire resistance composed of actual, honest to God morons?" Garcy


AN: I usually don't do prompts or requests (sorry! and there _are_ exceptions to the rule…one of which is probably coming up soon) but I was already writing this, albeit from Lucy's POV. But I _suppose_ I could spend some more time in Garcia Flynn's head and it probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the universe.

Someone on Tumblr (I can't remember who) made a comment about The Thin Man being the next movie Lucy and Flynn watched (or something of the like) and I about screamed because I'd had that _exact_ same thought.

And big thank you to Professor Roxborough, from whom I took a class called The American West in Film. You'll figure out why this is relevant in a bit.

 **Black, White, and the Beauty of Gray**

Only Lucy Preston would be able to joke about getting her heart broken. To the man's face. He had considered swooping in with his usual dramatic flair in the middle of Wyatt's idiotic decision to let this extraordinary woman go, but in the end, he had stood quietly in the shadows, listening and thinking.

He'd given Lucy a full hour.

He'd showered, done a few small things in his closet of a room. On the other hand, he was currently roommate-less. For some reason, no one wanted to share space with him. He smirked. There were perks to being the villain.

There were also drawbacks to being him, one of which that army cots from the 1950s were not designed for men who were 6'4. What he needed to do was pilfer another bed, possibly two, and wedge them together. Then they'd be getting somewhere.

He stretched, his back reminding him that it had been a long day. Rufus and Wyatt, especially Wyatt, had been deeply unapologetic about leaving him to deal with Rittenhouse and whatever sleeper agents had been lurking in the wings.

Which, of course, he had. Dealt with.

Still. He was irritated.

Wyatt had a grudge against him, admittedly not totally without reason. Something about being shot at or lured into the arms of a serial killer or - just possibly - being the one who got to carry Lucy to bed the day before when she had abruptly fainted while debriefing the rest of the team about Salem.

That had been a bit of a scary moment. Her face, usually a lovely alabaster, had gone dead white, eyes rolling back in her head.

He'd caught her before she hit the floor, the heat from her fever evident even through her clothes. Was there a reason she hadn't gotten antibiotics? Was this entire resistance composed of actual, honest to God morons?

When she was tucked into her own cot, Jiya and Agent Christopher running triage, he stood in the doorway, effectively blocking Wyatt's view. He hadn't done it on purpose, but once he realized it, he had no intention of moving.

Two hours later, with Lucy resting uneasily, the alarms had gone off, telling them Rittenhouse had jumped.

He had listened to dates, times, places, considering possible motives, all while systematically making a fresh pot of coffee.

Time travel was tiring in general.

Two trips in about eight hours were going to be exhausting.

He was getting too damn old for this, but it wasn't as though he had a choice.

And then it had all gone to hell.

He was not at all convinced Rufus and Wyatt would come back for them. He told them as much when they actually did, though not in a nice way.

Wyatt had smirked in a similar fashion. "Lucy made us," he said. The comment was meant to rankle, to convey the point that Wyatt Logan did not care if he lived or died. Conversely, it had made him feel a bit better. Lucy had his back.

But who had hers? Not Wyatt, not now. Oh, he knew that if it came down to brass tacks that Wyatt would still cheerfully die for her. But who was there for her to lean on? To stop her from falling apart? Death wasn't the only thing she needed to be saved from.

To that end, striving for casual, he had wandered into the living area. Lucy was watching It Happened One Night, and he almost rolled his eyes. Wishful thinking? Or was she just depressing herself further?

Still, he stayed silent. She was allowed to be unhappy. Come to that, he wasn't sure he had ever seen her happy, truly happy.

There was a thought that required some more time, but not now.

He sat beside her, giving her as much space as he possibly could, given the restrictions of furniture size.

She didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him.

But she did take the beer.

It was a start.

He kept one eye on the movie and one eye on her. When she finished her first beer, he handed her another. Halfway through, she sighed, deeply, then seemed to debate with herself for a moment or two. Then, with a small gesture he was pretty sure indicated she was going with _what the hell_ as a decision, she tipped her head onto his shoulder.

He very carefully didn't react.

It was difficult. This was the first time someone had deliberately touched him for reasons not related to health or harm in so, _so_ long, and he was vaguely surprised at his response.

Treading carefully was the key. The last thing he wanted was to make her think he didn't want her to touch him. And he couldn't overwhelm her either.

Casual.

Right.

He was bad at casual, as a general rule.

Tonight he would have to make a herculean effort.

Slowly, he stretched his legs out, mirroring her position, shifting an inch closer to her so she had to lean less. She didn't balk at his movement, just adjusted herself slightly, cheek rubbing against his arm.

He liked what that implied.

He and Lucy left most of their most important conversations unspoken. In no way did it mean they never happened. Tonight, his presence meant he was telling her that he was here if she needed him. Her head on his shoulder told him that she knew, and she did.

The movie ended, happily for the previously star-crossed couple.

Real life was rarely so neat and tidy.

The screen told him The Thin Man was starting next. Good. If she was going to watch old movies, they should at least be funny.

"Do you think this should be considered a Christmas movie?" she asked once, quietly, eyes on the screen.

He shrugged, but slightly, not wanting to dislodge her. "People consider Die Hard a Christmas movie. Why not this one?"

She sighed, still watching. "I could really go for a martini," she commented, as Myrna Loy ordered six.

He chuckled. "Fresh out of gin, I'm afraid. Do you think anyone would object to setting up a still in this place?"

He was delighted to see that her lips actually curved up. "Did you watch a lot of MASH, by any chance?"

"Yes," he told her. "If they could do it in the middle of Korea, we can do it here."

"Government issued liquor." She smiled. "Our tax dollars hard at work."

For the first time, she looked up at him. He grinned down at her. "We could bottle it," he suggested. "Sell it to the public if and when we ever get out of this hell hole."

"Call it Bunker Booze," she said. "Or Garcia's Gin."

It was the first time he could recall her ever using his first name.

He liked it far too much.

She put her head back on his shoulder.

He liked that, too.

The black and white scenes went on. He smiled in a few places. It had been years since he'd watched this movie, and he was glad to know he still enjoyed it.

"Did you know they filmed this whole thing in two weeks?" she asked.

No, he hadn't known. Trust her to.

She was talking to hear herself talk, her brain throwing out facts to keep it from dwelling on the one thing she didn't really want to think about. They both knew she was rambling, but he had no intention of telling her to stop.

"Were they a couple in real life?" He nodded at the screen, where Powell and Loy continued to flawlessly perform.

Her smile was a little wry. "No," she told him. "At least, no one ever admitted it. But when he died, she said people sent her condolence cards."

It was a nice story. He leaned over, taking her empty beer bottle, and his cheek brushed her hair. She sighed. It might have been incidental, but it felt like she turned into him for a heartbeat.

The credits rolled, and an old western came on.

Lucy rested more of her weight against him.

"I should go to bed," she said, but she didn't move.

"Okay," he told her. He didn't move either.

There it was, their unspoken conversation. Between the lines.

 _Is this still alright?_

 _I'm going to be here for as long as you are. For however long you need me._

Silly woman. So unsure of herself. Of what she meant.

She was in a bad place, Lucy was. Heartbroken on more than one front, by more than one person. And still trying to be noble about the whole thing. She really was better than all of them.

"Why were they called spaghetti westerns?" he asked her, even though he knew the answer. Giving her something to think about, to talk about.

She took a breath, let it out. "Because they were filmed in Italy," she replied, professor mode activated. He let her rattle on, giving every appearance of listening thoughtfully.

He didn't think she realized when she wrapped both of her arms around one of his. It was a natural shift for two people sitting very close together, allowing her to rest more comfortably.

His cheek brushed her hair again.

"It's no wonder you had excellent attendance at your lectures, professor," he said, during a break. "But I bet if your students could see you now they'd be shocked."

Her posture tensed. "I'm still just a teacher," she replied. "It's what I do. Tell you, tell the team, what happened, what's going to happen."

The ire in her voice was clearly not directed at him. " _Just_ a teacher?" he echoed. "Hardly. I'm fairly certain _just teachers_ don't spend their days fighting shadow organizations that are attempting to take over the world, or save women from being hanged, or chase wayward future presidents around the countryside. Or spend their evenings watching old movies with wanted terrorists, for that matter."

She snorted, but he felt her relax all the same. "I'll concede the point about the terrorists."

It was suddenly important that she understood. He turned, took her face in his hands. She was startled, but not uneasy.

" _Do not_ sell yourself short," he said. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. "You are the best of us, Lucy. Don't forget it."

He held her eyes. Willed her to know it was true. That even if she didn't believe it right now, he did. Had never stopped. Would never stop.

There wasn't a great deal she could say in response, so she simply nodded, and he let it go.

For now.

Tentatively, but deliberately, she took his arm again.

There was a fraught silence.

Then, "Did you know most of this dialogue was actually in Italian? It's just dubbed over with English?"

He followed her lead. "I suppose that was cheaper than flying a bunch of American's over to be extras."

And so it went for the next hour and a half.

By the time Lucy called it a night, he knew more about the history of film than he had ever cared to. But Lucy was standing on her own two feet again, a little shakily, true, but upright nonetheless.

He supposed that was worth useless knowledge. Perhaps he could win Jeopardy someday.

With a snort at the direction of his thoughts, he saw Lucy to her room, hand on her lower back. She pointedly did not look at the room where he knew Wyatt and his wife were. Brave girl.

The bed situation in his own room hadn't improved while he was out.

Sighing, he folded his arms behind his head.

If he closed his eyes, he imagined he could still feel Lucy's warmth where she was pressed against his side.

Soft, sweet-smelling, delicate. Ferocious warrior. Terribly brave. Deeply unsure.

So many contradictions wrapped up in one woman.

She was extraordinary.

He just hoped that someday she understood just _how_ extraordinary.


End file.
